Perambulators
a war has been brought to
us
to children, by children
who could not choose
their childhood toys.
a war,
one of matrices,
cut and fit in rows and
columns,
one of appearances,
length and width of
gymnasium hours,
one of the polish of currency
notes,
one of algorithms,
but dyings of flesh, of
souls have not ceased
dimensions unexplored,
unexplained
the violent clinks of
bells: of metal
as the perambulators
clash
those children;
no other noise,
no cries, no screams,
laughter; maniacal, fearfully
psychopathic laughter:
there are also three or
four year olds
who have sticks and
slogans to kill a cat
hiding under a car in
parking,
to dominate fellows young
and old by tantrums,
to spit in envy when not
in spotlight
there is no light. There are
just the spots,
stains upon those who
were once hope,
hope that they'd remove
the blemish
that laughter; merciless,
psychopathic laughter
manufactured continuals, manufactured wars,
manufactured....children?
Arik Mitra is from Kolkata, West Bengal, India. An IT professional, he has been writing for about two years now. He writes mainly short stories and poetry in English and Bengali (his mother tongue).
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